


Itch

by lil_bonsai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Gen, Historical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25608466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_bonsai/pseuds/lil_bonsai
Summary: Spain hates to go to sleep on nights when his fingers itch. Why won't the past just stay in the past?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Itch

**Author's Note:**

> A small TW: Throwing up, mention of rape.

Sometimes Spain was afraid to go to sleep.

There happened to be days where his fingers felt prickly all over, accompanied with the taste of iron in the back of his mouth. Sometimes an awful, bipolar nausea, and when worst came to worst, the feeling of burning up. He would always feel ill at ease toward the final hours of the day whenever this happened.

Spain had tried speaking to other nations about it, and had found that the majority experienced these symptoms as well. To most, the best explainable reason for it was “remnants of history”. France, for instance, often mentioned a stinging in his neck, something he had felt for the first time in 1792. Germany sometimes struggled to breathe. China had once in a world meeting ever-so-subtly mentioned that he had recurring dreams of non-consensual intercourse. But common for nearly everyone, the exception being countries whose history remained mostly innocent, was the itchy sensation in their fingers.

Sometimes Spain was afraid to go to sleep because these symptoms always were followed by nightmares. Like an omen, they foretold that the night that lied ahead would be a painful one if Spain decided to close his eyes, and therefore, he often went multiple consequential nights refusing to sleep. And if he decided to sleep at all, he sometimes found a distressed and concerned Romano next to his bed when he woke up, trying his best to ask if Spain was okay without saying the words directly.

Today was a day Spain was afraid to go to sleep, but he decided to get the night over with. Before his eyes glid shut, the symptoms in his body intensified until he was trembling in a fetal position underneath his duvet, furiously grabbing it. He considered calling Romano, but just like he had done the previous hundreds of times, he rejected the idea. Romano had seen him multiple times throughout history when his malice had peaked; There was no reason Spain deserved someone to console him for it. These symptoms were his way to atone for his sins, a punishment from God, in whose name Spain had carried out despicable acts.

The symptoms exacerbated until Spain passed out.

...

_ Tonight he wore a cape with a hood that switched between being black and red. The hood was pointed in the back. In his right hand was a burning torch, its heat tickling his fingers, and in his left hand was his fist that he clenched for dear life. Beings that looked like garbage bags sat atop a pile of sticks and wooden crosses, and they screamed soundlessly when the flame intertwined them with his torch. The smell that oozed from the bonfire evoked a pleasant feeling. Although what he saw in front of him were horrors that had once taken place, which he considered an absolute taboo nowadays, in dreams, it made him want to do more; To find pesky, little, liars and beat them till their eyes were hollow and their vocal cords torn. Yes, in the world of dreams, nobody got hurt, and he could do whatever his urges commanded. With his itching fingers he lit the liars aflame and tore their bodies apart until the blood splattered. The sight of it made him sick to the core, but he had to satisfy the itch. _

_ The itch told him who were okay to kill. _

_ The itch told him it was okay to kill. _

_ The itch told him that God’s will was that the liars be killed. _

_ And if God wished it, he would burn his whole country to ashes. _

  
  


…

The second Spain spared up his eyes and sat up the following morning, the overwhelming taste of vomit in the far back of his throat overcame him. He jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom.

The usual routine.

With his head in the toilet bowl and face hidden by sweaty locks, Spain let his tears fall for a few seconds. However not too much as he didn’t want anybody to know that he had cried in the first place. If his perception of time was correct, Romano was coming over for breakfast which was in not too long, and Spain refused to let himself be comforted (with whatever colorful vocabulary Romano had preempted for such use).

Into the toilet bowl, he let out the worst of his anger and disgust as he hid a few sobs behind the sound of him throwing up. Pressured by the fact that a visitor would arrive soon - The fact that Spain didn’t  _ really  _ know what time it was being even more pressuring - he stuck a finger to the back of his throat and forced out what was left; Of tears, sobs, silent screams, and nauseousness he felt toward himself for letting the sadistic part of him that he so badly wanted to hide away, entertain him in those dreams.

Eventually the regurgitating ceased, and Spain could sink onto his knees on the floor and catch his breath for a minute. Wipe some of the excessive sweat off of his forehead. Perhaps pray to God and ask for forgiveness. Then he took a shower to wash off as much of last night as possible as another set of tears went undercover with the water. He got changed into fresh, clean clothes and made sure that there was no trace of red puffiness left on his face.

And although it never worked, he applied an anti-itch cream onto his hands so that when Romano came over, he didn’t have to see the damnable thoughts that Spain was hiding in his fingers.


End file.
